


The Badger Game

by forthedefenseyourhonor



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU - con artists, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthedefenseyourhonor/pseuds/forthedefenseyourhonor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Badger Game is an extortion scheme, often perpetrated on married men, in which the victim or "mark" is tricked into a compromising position to make him vulnerable to blackmail.</p><p>Or: Matt and Foggy have spent a long time together blackmailing people, and getting away with it, but someone it on to them and it's time to make a decision about their future prospects and their safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The mirrored cabinet door shut with a sharp click and Foggy took a small step back to admire his handiwork. His shoulder length hair, usually so lovingly well cared for, hung lank and greasy around his face, a little carefully applied stage make-up brought out dark circles around his eyes, and there was two days’ worth of stubble gracing his typically clean-shaven chin. He smiled to himself and pushed a pair of fake glasses up his nose. Not completely unrecognisable but not someone you’d look twice at on the street, let alone in a dark nightclub. There was a soft knocking and the door inched open. Matt’s face appeared in the crack.

“You ready?”

“I was born ready, baby.”

“Perfect.”

Matt smiled and let the door swing open before swooping in to land a slightly messy kiss on Foggy’s lips. He always got a little giddy before they went out on a job and this evening was no exception. The nerves and excitement were still so fresh despite knowing every miniscule detail of a meticulous plan that they had executed without flaw for years now. Matt pulled away, still grinning.

“You know, I think the stubble is finally growing on me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Foggy raised an eyebrow. “Well it wouldn’t be much of a disguise if I had it all the time now, would it?”

“Mm, I suppose,” Matt hummed a little and then skimmed his fingers over the face of his watch. “You’d better get a move on, you’ll be late.”

He disappeared from the doorway and dived back into the walk-in wardrobe, leafing through the rails of clothes and running his fingers over the braille tags dangling from the hangers, deciding what to wear.

“What do you think?” He called from the closet as Foggy grabbed his satchel, peeking inside to check that the camera and battery packs were safely stowed. “Navy Armani or gray Dior?”

Matt reappeared holding up two suit jackets against his bare torso. This was another part of the routine: the flirting before they went their separate ways for the night. This was all foreplay for Matt but Foggy didn’t have time to indulge him right now.

“The gray, but with the black Hermès shirt; it looks good on you.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt cocked an eyebrow and disappeared back into the folds of clothes.

Occasionally, Foggy was struck with a pang of jealousy that he was stuck with the jeans and t-shirt end of this deal whilst Matt got to flaunt around in designer suits. But still, it was only one or two nights each month and was a price well worth paying for their lifestyle.

“Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

Foggy grabbed his keys and strode to the front door.

“Hey!” Matt poked his head into the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Foggy smiled and opened the front door.

“I love you too.”

He stepped out of the apartment and took a deep breath. Exhale Foggy Nelson, inhale Franklin Sharpe. Foggy was an obscure enough nickname not to be easily associated with his real name and Sharpe was simply his mother’s maiden name, but no one had made that connection yet. _Franklin Sharpe_ : nightclub and event photographer. Or at least that was what his business cards said. He hailed a cab and began to make his way uptown. He was headed to the Strand for a fancy party being thrown by some potential politician. The host didn’t much matter. Their target this evening was Tom Collier: son of a senator and high-profile boyfriend of an up-and-coming menswear designer. His relationship with Marc Delauney (real name: Mark Smith) was turbulent and often featured in tabloids and gossip columns; every week there was some new story pertaining to a new development in their relationship. This was the case for many of their targets: quasi-celebrities with an over-inflated sense of self, a publicly rocky relationship, and a lot to lose by being caught cheating. Foggy and Matt spent weeks with lists of potential targets, gradually narrowing them down. Then Matt, with his heightened senses, spent a few days carrying out reconnaissance and finally choosing their next mark. They made an excellent team. Foggy did all the organising; sorted the where and the when. He maintained a front as an event photographer and gained himself access to the types of parties their targets attended. Matt, with his excellent bone structure and perfectly procured muscles was the city’s poster boy – literally – and it got him into any party he wanted. You could barely turn a corner in Manhattan these days without seeing that signature Matt Murdock grin being flashed down at you from some billboard or another. Foggy guessed that if Matt really hit the big time modelling – and he could with that face and that body – they could give up their life of manipulation and extortion. Though he didn’t think either of them would want to; the chase was intoxicating.

The taxi pulled up outside the hotel, Foggy paid his fare, and stepped out onto the pavement. Once inside the cool quiet lobby of the hotel, he paused to look around. For somewhere that boasted some of the most high-profile guests in the world, there wasn’t a lot of security. He already knew, from Matt’s scoping of the place, that the elevators up to the bar and nightclub didn’t even require card access. Keeping his head down, Foggy moved leisurely over to the elevators and pushed the large gold button. The doors to his left slid open immediately. He stepped in, hit the button marked “Top of the Strand” and waited for the doors to close. He was in. He knew, of course, that he’d have to check in with _someone_ at some point, but avoiding the main reception was always a good start. If he got caught there he’d have to leave a name, and even a fake name creates a paper trail that can wind up leading somewhere. Foggy plunged a hand into his bag a pulled out a laminated lanyard that he shoved into a pocket instead. Matt had said he _thought_ the people working in the club had all had lanyards on, but he hadn’t got close enough to anyone to be sure. Foggy figured having a fake one to hand never hurt anyone. The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and he stepped out into a smaller but opulently decorated lobby. The entrance was lined with dozens of palm trees with their fronds spray painted gold and wrapped in seemingly-endless strings of fairy lights. The smell of the aerosolised paint was still heavy in the air and Foggy knew it would drive Matt mad, but he’d just have to get over it. They were here on business, not pleasure. There was already music playing softly through the PA system but Foggy could hear that there was no one yet inside. A harassed looking woman in a sharp mustard suit appeared suddenly behind a podium at the entrance and called out to him.

“Hey, uh, sorry sir, but the function doesn’t start for another half hour yet! You’ll have to wait downstairs!”

Foggy gave her a warm, understanding smile and made his way over to the podium.

“No worries, I am unfortunately not a guest,” he hoisted the DSLR from his satchel, “Franklin Sharpe. I’m the photographer.”

“Oh, yes, of course!” she shook her head and offered her hand, “I’m Madeleine, I think we emailed?”

Foggy nodded and shook her hand, still smiling.

“Did you get signed in and get a lanyard from reception? It’s a bit of a pain but it’s policy, y’know, with the kind of clientele they get up here.”

“Yup,” Foggy tugged the piece of laminated card briefly from his pocket, “I’ll put it on in just a moment once I’m set up with my camera, if that’s OK?”

Madeleine was already being distracted by something going on behind him and barely spared the fake lanyard a second glance.

“Yes, of course. Um, I hope you don’t mind, I’m just going to kinda leave you to it. I’ve still got stuff to sort out before the guests arrive and I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” she gave a strained-looking smile.

“No problem, I’ve worked here before so I know my way around. Go on!”

He waved her away, still smiling as she gave a grateful little nod and chased after two waiters who seemed to be disagreeing over which cutlery they were meant to be laying out for the _hors d'oeuvres._ Ducking under a golden palm leaf, Foggy entered the bar area. The lights were up a little more than they would be once guests starting arriving but it was still pretty dark. He flashed a smile at the bartender who eyed him curiously whilst polishing a wine glass and then set out unpacking his camera and lenses on a nearby table. Once the camera was ready, the battery and memory card both in check, he slung the lanyard around his neck and proceeded around the venue taking some suitably “arty” pictures of the place before the carnage of party with an open bar ensued. He managed to kill nearly an hour in this manner before the first few guests began to trickle into the bar from the floors below. Foggy lingered a little way back from the ornately decorated arch, snapping photos of the wannabe-elite of New York as they mingled. Many of the women, wary of the judgement of those in the upper echelons of society, sipped at small glasses of Sauvignon Blanc despite the free bar whilst many of the men who had already arrived had ordered double shots and pitchers of beers to chase them with. Foggy rolled his eyes and checked his watch. It was just after 9:30 pm. Sighing, he checked his phone. One message from Matt: _Did you get in OK?_ He tapped out a quick reply letting Matt know that the plan, thus far, had gone off without a hitch. Matt wouldn’t be here for at least another hour yet. They knew that Tom Collier was planning to arrive “fashionably late”, as Matt had overheard him say, at around 10:30 pm. Marc Delauney would not be in attendance. He was in Paris attempting to woo some big fashion execs and convince them to pick up one of his clothing lines. In his absence, Matt would make his move, Foggy would get the money-shot, and the two of them would be laughing all the way to the bank.

The room was bustling now; the DJ had nearly finished setting up in a glossy booth tucked into the corner and people were hovering around the edge of the dancefloor in anticipation of something more interesting than the soft jazz currently piping through the sound system. Foggy decided to move off into the crowd and get some pictures of the party goers, but he’d not taken more than one step before a surly looking, dark haired woman stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Sorry,” he smiled, “Excuse me.”

He made to move around her but she sidestepped, still blocking his path, and got a surprisingly firm grip on his upper arm.

“Foggy Nelson?”

“Uhh, no, Franklin Sharpe. See?”

Foggy twitched the laminated piece of card strung around his neck with his free hand. The woman’s grip was unrelenting. She rolled her eyes as a loud bassline kicked in as the DJ snapped on some headphones.

“Yeah, Franklin Percy Nelson, your mother’s maiden name is Sharpe; don’t exactly need to be Sherlock Holmes to put that together.”

“Look, I don’t–”

Foggy was cut off as his arm was twisted and he was directed roughly towards a fire door, which he now saw had been propped open with a brick. He was shoved through it and his upper arm finally released as he staggered into a brightly lit stairwell. He saw the woman more clearly now; she was evidently not a party guest, dressed in a well-loved leather jacket and jeans in a wash not quite dark enough to disguise how grubby they were. She kicked the brick away and let the door click shut. She turned to face him.

“I know what you’re up to.”

“I’m not _up_ to anything. I’m trying to do my job, which is take pictures of all these rich, drunk assholes in there.”

She scoffed loudly and stepped closer, folding her arms.

“Look, we both know that’s not true. I have been asked by my _employer_ ,” she placed a certain disdain on the word, “to take care of you and your pretty-boy partner. However, I’m a reasonable woman so instead I am here to gently remind you that, under sections 135.60 – 135.75 of the New York penal code, extortion and coercion is a felony crime.”

She punctuated her sentence with a sarcastic smile. Foggy felt his heart in his throat; who was this woman and how did she know what he and Matt were doing? More importantly, did she have proof? She took another step closer so she was right in Foggy’s face. She smelled strongly of the kind of cheap bourbon you can only get in dodgy late-night liquor stores. Foggy took a step back and bumped into the metal bannister running around the perimeter of the stairwell.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking: how do I know and do I have proof? I know because it’s my job to and, luckily for you, I don’t have proof. _Yet_. Scurry on home, destroy any pictures you took this evening, and we can forget this ever happened – got it?”

Foggy nodded, his mouth dry and his pulse deafening in his ears.

“Good.”

She turned quickly and with no effort yanked the fire escape door open again. A screw hit the floor and rolled away, falling off the edge of the landing. Foggy heard it bouncing off of concrete and metal as it descended through the building. She looked up again.

“This was broken before I got here.”

She jerked her head, indicating that he should go first back into the now dark and noisy room. He obliged, tugging his camera over his head as he went and shoving it haphazardly back into his bag. Foggy pushed his way through the crowd, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. She wasn’t following him, however. He could see her moving through the crowd with ease straight towards the bar. _Figures_ , he thought as he took one last look back before diving into an empty elevator and punching the button for the lobby. His heart still pounding as the elevator descended, he plunged a hand into his pocket and found his phone. _Need to call it off. See you at home._ Message delivered. He hoped Matt hadn’t already left. The elevator stopped and the doors to the glittering lobby slid open. Foggy hurried across the marble floor, slipped under the outstretched arm of a doorman holding the heavy door for a woman in a lurid cocktail dress, and dived into a waiting cab.

“45th and 9th, please.”

The driver grunted in acknowledgement and pulled away. Foggy started as his phone rang suddenly in his pocket. Matt. No surprises there.

“Hey.”

“Foggy, what’s up? Where are you? I was just about to leave.”

“I’m just in a cab, I’ll be back soon. I can’t explain over the phone.”

“What happened?”

Foggy could hear the worry heavy in Matt’s voice, even over the phone.

“I’ll tell you when I’m back. Look,” he heard Matt open his mouth to interrupt, “I’m fine, I promise.”

Matt sighed.

“OK. I’ll see you soon then.”

The line went dead. Foggy let out a shaky breath. When they’d started out with this play, it hadn’t been at all uncommon for them to call off a job last minute; they were both much more susceptible to cold feet back then. But these days they were practised professionals and Matt would know that something had gone seriously wrong for Foggy to cancel after all their hard work.

The rest of the journey home passed in a daze. The driver pulled up to the sidewalk, Foggy paid and left the cab without waiting for his change. He hurried up to their apartment and opened the door to find Matt waiting expectantly on the other side. He was still dressed in the finery he would have worn out, though the dark oval glasses sat folded on the hallway cabinet. Foggy shut the door behind him and let his head fall gently backwards onto the dark wood as he let out a sigh.

“Someone’s on to us.”

* * *

Half an hour later they were sat on the couch, Foggy with a beer in hand and Matt finally in sweatpants and a t shirt instead of a two-thousand-dollar suit, the events of the evening had been recited and Matt now sat with his brow furrowed and a fist clenched where it lay on his thigh. It had taken Foggy a little while to assure Matt that he wasn’t hurt in any way, though he still didn’t look completely convinced.

“And you’re _sure_ have no idea who this woman was?” he asked for the fourth time.

“No. I told you, she was completely nondescript other than that she stank of whiskey.”

That wasn’t entirely true though, Foggy thought as he swigged from the beer bottle. He remembered the screw bouncing from stair to handrail as it plummeted down storey after storey of stairs and the wrenching sound of metal when the woman had pulled the fire door open again. At the time he’d thought the brick and her letting the door shut were just part of an act to make him think he was trapped – she had said the door was broken after all – but now he wasn’t so sure. He sighed.

“She did seem kinda...strong...”

“What?”

Matt twitched his head the way he always did when Foggy said something that piqued his interest. Foggy smiled despite himself.

“Well, she told me the door was broken but I think she might have just ripped it open. I don’t know, does that sound stupid?”

“People have all sorts of abilities these days,” Matt shrugged.

He seemed distracted now.

“And she stank of whiskey?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Matt stood up and ran a hand through his hair.

“Uh, what? No reason, just trying to y’know,” he gesticulated vaguely, “imagine her.”

Foggy rubbed his eyes.

“I’m gonna get some sleep. We can sort this mess out in the morning?”

He stood up and padded toward the kitchen where Matt now stood, dropping his empty bottle into the trash as he passed.

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re in any immediate trouble.”

Matt leaned in and kissed him softly, one hand resting on Foggy’s hip.

“You coming to bed?”

“I’ll be in soon.”

Foggy moved towards the bedroom, his mind still filled with questions about the woman and her employer. He was worried sleep would not come quickly but was out like a light almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, long before Matt came to join him.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt stood quiet and still in the kitchen listening to Foggy in the next room. As soon as he heard his heart rate and breathing slow to the steady, familiar beat they kept whilst he slept Matt leapt into action. He delved deep into the recesses of the closet where clothes that neither of them ever wore, but had never been bothered to throw away, usually resided. He fished out a pair of combats and some heavy duty boots, pulling them on as quietly as he could in the confined space. He grabbed a lycra shirt usually reserved for the gym and was halfway to the window leading to the fire escape before remembering that skulking around in dark alleys was usually something people did anonymously. Grateful for Foggy’s creative side, he fumbled in a drawer full of fabric off-cuts and found a piece in a texture that he was sure he remembered Foggy telling him was black. He tied the fabric at the back of his neck, forming a make-shift mask that covered the top half of his face. Hesitating, one hand on the window sill, he listened again; Foggy was still asleep. Matt lifted the window and slipped out onto the metal stairway. It was a warm night and the air was thick with the smells of the city. He had a relatively good idea who this mystery woman accosting Foggy was and, if she _was_ who he suspected, then she had no business telling them to cease and desist in _their_ extralegal activities. He clambered up the metal structure and onto the roof of their building to get a better scope of the city. It’d had been a long time since he’d used his senses to track people down and it took a minute to filter out all the extra noise. He listened, sifting through layer after layer of sound until he heard what he was waiting for; the shattering of glass, followed by a string of expletives. He smiled and hopped off the roof. She was only a block away and he hoped this wouldn’t take long.

To say he was out of practice at this whole Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thing would have been an understatement. Before he and Foggy had begun running their extortion scheme, this had been Matt’s moonlighting career: sneaking around New York at night, gathering information for a network of underground criminals. He had liked working alone but, after a few run-ins with people who somewhat violently disagreed with his employer’s techniques, Matt had been assigned a partner and that was who he was on his way to see. Once upon a time, Jessica Jones had run her own private investigations firm, Alias Investigations, but her quick temper and often unorthodox methods had landed her in hot water too many times for the business to remain viable. Her knack for uncovering information people wanted kept hidden along with her supernatural strength, however, had made her a very attractive employee for those in Matt’s line of work. Their work together had been uncomfortable at first, but they had soon expanded their roles and fallen into an easy routine: Matt located their target, Jessica intimidated them, and they both got a respectable cut of whatever money their mark owed to the bosses. Simple.

Matt was slightly puffed now from his jaunt across the rooftops as he crouched on the corner above what used to be Jessica’s office. Her window was jammed open as wide as it would go and he could smell the whiskey now pooling on the floor from the broken bottle. Jessica was still uttering an almost nonstop stream of curse words under her breath as she picked shards of glass out from the rug. Not wanting to startle her, Matt gave up on stealth as he shimmied down to the window and sat himself casually on the ledge.

“Good evening.”

Jessica jumped, tried to stand up and, in her haste, stumbled backwards and knocked a stack of papers from her desk into the small puddle of whiskey below.

“Jesus Christ! Oh, shit,” she began scrabbling to rescue the papers from the floor.

Ordinarily, Matt would help but that wasn’t the role he was here to play this evening.

“What the hell are you sneaking around like that for?”

“I was hardly sneaking. I made a complete racket coming down the guttering with the express intention of _not_ scaring you,” he smiled.

Jessica’s heart was pounding but he’d never quite managed to pin that reaction to one emotion with her. He probably did give her a fright but she could just be pissed off.

“Why are you here? And what the hell are you wearing?”

She threw the slightly soggy papers back onto the desk and perched on the edge of it, folding her arms.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Are you serious?” She let out a low chuckle, “You look like some kind of cheap knock-off ninja, and don’t get me started on that mask. Can you even see through it?”

“No, I just put it on to come down here,” Matt lied.

Jessica snorted. As the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, he had always worn a mask and took care to disguise some of Matt Murdock’s more easily identifiable features.

“Well, I guess it’s still an improvement on that whole...devil...thing you used to wear.”

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“You didn’t answer my question, why are you here?”

“Who are you working for at the moment?”

“The usual mix of scumbags and lowlifes. Who wants to know?”

“I do. Heard a rumour you ripped a fire door clean off its hinges at the Strand this evening.”

Jessica huffed and pushed herself up off the desk.

“You’re as nosy as ever, I see.”

“Is it true?”

“That I ripped a door off its hinges? Don’t be stupid...”

Matt inclined his head towards her.

“...all right, I busted the lock, but I didn’t rip the whole door off,” she shrugged, “I just needed to shake the guy up a little bit. Who told you, anyway?”

They had fallen easily back into the rhythm their conversations had followed before. Matt wondered how much to give away. Jessica _was_ a very good detective and he didn’t want to hand her more information than was strictly necessary.

“The guy you were shaking up is a professional; you seriously think he doesn’t have some connections?”

Jessica scoffed.

“Franklin ‘Foggy’ Nelson,” she punctuated the nickname with some sarcastic air quotes, “may think he’s a professional but he’s sloppy and his partner, this Matt Murdock, his face is up all over the city now. He’s a fool if he thinks people won’t catch on.”

She glanced up at him.

“I don’t really care about all that. Who told you they were going to be at the Strand tonight?”

“Are you asking me as a colleague or a friend?”

Matt could tell she was growing bored with the conversation now, picking absent-mindedly at a chip in the varnish of her desk. Knowing Jessica, there was more whiskey waiting to be drunk and anything in between her and a drink was, frankly, an inconvenience.

“Both. I’m just trying to do a favour for a friend and I was hoping you might help me out.”

She stopped picking at the desk and heaved a sigh.

“I got asked to look into it by a lawyer I sometimes work for. She’s got a client who wanted that guy really roughed up but I know that everyone has secrets...and sometimes you’ve gotta look out for your friends, Matt.”

She was looking directly at him now and Matt felt his breath catch in his throat. Foggy had been in real danger this evening and Jessica had spared him on what couldn’t be much more than a hunch. He probably owed her the truth for that alone. Matt reached up and tugged the makeshift mask off of his head.

“How long have you known who I was?”

“A few months. There was a billboard out there with your face on it for a while,” she nodded towards the street, “I fucking hated looking at it all day, so I had a celebratory drink and watched when they decided to finally take it down. They took the top off first and just left the bottom half of your face for a couple of hours. I put two and two together and _voilà_.”

She sounded very smug about this whole thing. Matt sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Look, this client is serious though. The two of you have gotta stop this. They don’t have any proof but they will if you keep it up. I always knew you were lying about going clean, but you really need to this time if you want to stay out of trouble.”

Matt nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Jessica. I owe you.”

“You can repay me by trying to look even 10% less smug in every picture taken of you. I’m sick of seeing that smirk plastered on every available surface in this city.”

He laughed.

“I’ll try. I’d better get going. I’ll leave you to your whiskey.”

Matt jammed the piece of fabric into a pocket and began to clamber back out of the window.

“Hey,” Jessica called after him, “so you are _actually_ blind, right? Because pretending would be low, even for a blackmailing scumbag such as yourself.”

“Yeah, I am. That whole enhanced senses thing I told you about really doesn’t extend to my vision.”

“So, you really don’t know that you turned up on my windowsill with a piece of paisley fabric tied around your head?”

With his spare hand, Matt fished the fabric out again, running it between his finger and thumb.

“It’s not black?”

Jessica laughed wholeheartedly.

“Hate to disappoint you. Now, I’ve got somewhere to be. Get out of here. And Matt –” she stuck her head out of the window and he paused in climbing the fire escape, “– I won’t be so nice next time I catch you or your boyfriend breaking the law.”

The window slammed shut and Matt hopped back up onto the roof. He made his way back to the apartment but lingered a moment before slipping back in through the window. Jessica was serious and he hoped desperately that Foggy wouldn’t take a lot of convincing to give up on their life of crime. Matt had never told him about his past and working with Jessica, or the types of people they used to work for. He slid the window open as quietly as possible and silently dumped his makeshift outfit back into the depths of the wardrobe before slipping into the bedroom. Foggy was curled under the sheets, his breath fluttering a piece of hair that lay across his face. Matt climbed into bed beside him and coiled an arm around his chest. Foggy stirred and rolled over to face him.

“Hey Matty,” his voice was thick and soft with sleep.

“Hey.”

“I think we should give up our life of crime. Y’know, get domesticated. Get a cat or something.”

Matt chuckled quietly.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You can carry on being pretty for money and I’ll go out and get an honest job.”

He closed his eyes and shoved Matt gently, settling his head firmly on his chest. Matt gave a small hum of approval.

“You know,” Foggy said, nuzzling into Matt’s skin as he got comfortable, “I always fancied going to law school.”

Matt laughed and closed his eyes, safe in the knowledge that they were going to be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a proper AU before so this feels very un-fleshed out compared to things based in the canon universe. I hope it doesn't come off too flimsy and there aren't too many plot holes for you to find!
> 
> Also, my knowledge of New York penal codes comes from approximately thirty seconds of googling so please forgive any inaccuracies.


End file.
